City of Sand
by Aleksander Ivanov
Summary: In the year 2014 the world was laid to ashes and dust in the war to end all wars. The remaining civilians banded together with only one goal. Survive. In Senzavova city 100 years later, groups of survivors have banded together into teams. please R
1. Welcome to Sand City

**Note everyone is wearing a gas mask, unless otherwise stated. This story will be jumping back between characters and teams. This is part one . Please enjoy**

In the year 2014 the world was laid to ashes and dust in the war to end all wars. The remaining civilians banded together with only one goal. Survive. In Senzavova city 100 years later, groups of survivors have banded together into teams. Green: The remnants of the Army. Blue: The unsmart, but resourceful Airforce. Yellow: Tankers and explosive maniacs. Red: war mongers with only one goal. Domination. The factions are in a stale mate, but when the bold new Red General decides the city belongs to him. And several new non-teamed freelancers appear the balance of power may be dramatically altered. And the cruel fate of black team may finally be revealed. Who will rule….THE CITY OF SAND!

City: ?

Zone: 15

"Sand, too much Goddamn sand", The Operative growled as he tried to get a hand hold in the loose rock that made up the sand dune. The area around him was nothing but rolling hills of sand as far as he could see, which was about a 500 feet in each direction. Visibility was normal, but storm clouds began to form over The Operative's head."Shit", he said bitterly when he saw the clouds. He continued to climb the dune another fifteen or sixteen feet until he reached the top. Struggling under the weight of his own equipment he barely managed to pull himself over the top. The Operative was dressed in a large grey trench coat . He dropped his rifle a couple feet away and rolled over on his back panting. He stared at the beige sky while he caught his breath. After thirty seconds of rest The Operative rolls over and stumbles to his feet. The wind begins to blow harder and throw the sand around.

The Operative takes the binoculars from around his neck and starts to search the area for any signs of life. A couple hundred feet away from where he is standing he sees the image of two men kneeling over what appeared to be a corpse. Both men have their faces concealed by gas masks and tribal headbands. They wear no shirts apart from the worn leather armor that covered their torsos and arms. Skins of animals and what appeared to be human faces served as barbaric kilts."Fucking animals", he thought. The Operative set down the binoculars and set up the bipod on his CX117 Concussion rifle. The rifle was 5 feet long from tip of the barrel to end of the stock. The rifle fires by shaving a bullet the size of a grain of sand off a dense block of metal stored in the rifle, decreasing its mass with a CX energy field, and firing the projectile at supersonic velocities.

The Operative lined the scope up on his target's head. The one he was looking at was going through the dead man's pockets. The raider looked up and The Operative fired. The bullet ripped through the air and smashed directly above the raider's eye. The kinetic energy behind the bullet sent the man's skull flying in all directions. Blood and brain matter rained over the area and the headless raider slumped backwards. The other raider jumped up and started firing a pistol wildly that he had concealed. The Operative smiled at the blood and fired again. This time the bullet landed in the center of the raider's hand, knocking the pistol to the ground. The Raider swore and grabbed his hand, which was now gushing blood. The Operative fired two more times. These bullets struck the Raider in both knee caps. The raider crumpled into a pile soaked in his own blood. The Operative smiled and slung his rifle over his shoulder, and then he started climbing down the other side of the sand dune. When he reached the ground he walked slowly toward the bodies. He walked slowly smiling beneath his gas mask, he wasn't feeling rushed. Due to the brewing storm the first Raider was almost completely buried in sand. The Operative walked up to him,"Eww, might wanna look at that it looks infected". He kicked sand on the Raider's face and walked over to the second one. The second Raider was not yet dead. He was hyper-ventilating and immobile. The sand around him was painted dark red. The Raider turned his head and stared at The Operative with a look of pure loathing. "I'll kill you", he spat," I'll cut yer dick off, shoot you in the fuckin head, and fuck the hole". "Sure", the Operative smiled and pulled a nine millimeter handgun out of his waist holster. He cocked it, pulled back the hammer, and aimed it at the crippled Raiders head. "Any last words", the Operative jokes. "Fuck yer mom", the Raider spat. "I'll work on that", The Operative responded and shot him in the head. The Raider's head jerked back and his face imploded, and blood leaked out from beneath him. The Operative re-holstered the pistol, and started rummaging through his pockets. When he found nothing of use he walked casually back over to the man the Raiders robbed.

By this time the wind has picked up even more speed. Visibility was reduced to 25 feet all round him. The dust storm was coming soon. The man laid sprawled out with sand piling up on him. He wore a black leather tanker's uniform. He wore the same breathing apparatus that the Raiders did, if not in better condition. The man also wore a grey world war two German helmet with the letters "YC" printed on the side. On his arm was a yellow armband that was also embroidered "YC". The Operative knelled beside him "you're one unlucky bastard". As he started to stand up the man convulsed. The Operative whipped out his pistol and pointed it at the man's head. "You killed them?", he asked weakly looking up the barrel of the pistol. "Dead as the sand they now sleep in. You alright", The Operative asked, slowly holstering his pistol. "I think my leg's broken. The bastards ambushed me and knocked me out. Thanks for the save by the way".

"Not a problem, but a guardian angel doesn't come cheap"

"Ah, that's understandable my name is Colonel Dunbar , Yellow Team".

"Yellow Team? Sounds like a bad sci-fi novel"

Colonel Dunbar laughed "you're new to Senzavova aren't you"?

"I don't even know where the hell I am".

"My base is about a mile that way", he pointed with his left hand. "Help me get there and my superior will give you a reward. The Operative stood in thought for a moment. He didn't like not being paid up front, but the storm was getting worse and he would need a place to stay and food. "Fine, but I'm not a cheap merc this is gonna cost ya".

"Fine fine, help me up". The Operative helped Colonel Dunbar to his feet and placed his arm over his own shoulder and they started to walk fast. "By the way I don't think I caught your name", Dunbar asked as he limped along. "I never gave it", came the response from the Operative.

With his left hand the Operative adjusted his gas mask and flipped on his emergence oxygen. "You do have a name don't you", Dunbar persisted.

"I'm The Operative."

"You're an Operative?"

"Not just an Operative THE Operative."

The banter between them continued like this until the storm became so severe they could hardly see at all. "How far to this base of yours", The Operative yelled over the roar of the wind. "It shouldn't be much farther, actually it should be about" Colonel Dunbar was cut of mid sentence as he was struck in the chest with a sphere shaped object. The Colonel collapsed and started gasping for air. The Operative picked up the rubber ball and examined it for a minute. "What the hell", he thought then a voice on a mega phone cut through the wind. "You have entered Yellow Team territory that was a warning shot identify yourself or become a burning pile of meat. "What the fuck? I've got an injured man here. His name is Colonel Dunberry he says he's one of you". There was silence for a moment. Colonel Dunbar regained enough breath to mutter "my name is DunBAR you idiot".

Four loud booms in rapid succession sounded. "Umm what was-", an artillery shell landing 5 feet away from the Operative stopped him mid word. "Son of a bitch", he cried and jumped to the left. Another shell landed a couple feet to his right, the energy knocked him to the ground. "Stop shooting", he screamed, but another shell landed a couple inches from his left foot. The explosion blew his leg off all the way to the knee cap. His leg flew, in pieces, fifteen feet away and landed in a sand pile. The Operative howled in agony and grabbed his stump, which was gushing blood unto the sand. The Operative's vision was blurring and fading fast. He was losing blood at a fatal rate. Through the sand and his spinning vision he saw fifteen or twenty soldiers appear in front of them and huddle around Colonel all had gas masks and wore the same leather uniform as Colonel Dunbar. "It's the Colonel stupid he's gonna have our ass for this," one of the men said.

"It's in the middle of a sand storm and this guy yelled the wrong name", another retorted obviously distressed, "check the other guy" "He's gone his leg is off", another yelled walking over to the Operative. As the soldier approached he saw the Operative squirming and grasping his leg. "Hey he's still alive", he hollered," We need to get them to doc". The Operative was still thrashing as the soldier check him for a team tag. "Welcome to Sand City", he laughed and punched the Operative in the face, knocking him out.


	2. Mercenaries and Indians

Warning contains violence. Part two introduction to the Alchemist. Please enjoy!

City: Senzavova

Zone: Red 12

Cochise Dae Hridayesh sat with his eyes closed and his legs crossed in silent meditation. The room in which he sat was made completely of slabs of concrete about five feet thick. The walls were about 10 feet high. The entire room was 15x10. The only light in the room was the small ember burning on the tip of an incense stick. The smoke wrapped around his figure and made him look like the chiefs of his tribe's past. Cochise's bunker was an old underground missile silo. Because of the air filtration system he had constructed he was not forced to wear a breather inside his base. Cochise Da Hridayesh was a tall dark skinned Native American descended from the Melungeon and Apache tribes. He stood about six four, and bore tattoo's of fierce animals and Melungeon prayers along his arms and legs. His face along with his gas mask bore apache war paint and he wore significantly less armor than all the other gun crazy residents of Senzavova. This allowed him to move like the spirits of the wind themselves. Cochise was the last of a dying breed, the alchemists. He is one of the few people still alive that knows the secret of making the flash powders and diese bombs that have made him a fearsome legend. The City of Sand knew him as "The Alchemist".

Members of the red team believe he is the spirit of death. Set free on the world as punishment for our sins. The few times he has been in contact with the blue team. No soldiers lived long enough to report his presence. The green team considered him an ally. A last hope in a "we're all fucked" moment. They called on him regularly to design poisons, and other nasty biological weapons. Cochise had never ventured far enough to come in contact with the Yellow Team, but very soon that was going to change. Cochise inhaled deeply, taking the fumes from the burning incense and "war powder" deep into his lunges. He looked around the black room, making sure his eyes were adjusted. He gazed around the concrete room looking at the various powders and chemicals he used in his off in the distance a 16 man raider squad pried the door off one of the side entrances. Cochise's eyes shot open, he jumped to his feet, slipped silently out the opening in the room.

The raiders were soldiers, men who exiled from their teams for treason or friendly fire**. **They wore the uniform of a group of mercs called "Carlson's Raiders". They took their name from a famous world war two marine squad, but the only thing they had in common was guns. They had no honor, no discipline, and no mercy. The uniforms were Vietnam era army and marine corps bdus, with cold war era gas masks modified with breather units. "What is this place", one of the soldiers gawked as he looked around. He saw skeletons and dismembered corpses. The celing was 15 feet high, and the walls seemed to go on forever. The cave was pitch black except for the light emitted from the raiders breathers. "I don't know Nicky keep your guard up. The group advanced slowly into the tunnel. "What's this", one solder asked as he bent over and picked a rifle up off the group. As he tried to lift it a single click sounded. And a pressure triggered landmine exploded. The shrapnel from the explosion tore the soldier's face and arms from his body. Pieces of him splattered fifteen to twenty feet away and all over his companions. "Holy shit", the leader screamed and jumped back. After wiping blood off his face the leader made a dictation "no one touches anything until we get this fucker".

A chorus of yes sirs rang from the others in the group. "Keep moving", the leader commanded and made a "let's move" gesture with his hand. The tunnel they were traveling was completely rock with a few small cave lights every fifteen feet. After about fifteen or twenty feet from where the last soldier had died another soldier took long strides and ended up ahead of the group. "Jack, get back in formation!", the leader demanded. "Whats the big deal", Jack smirked and took another heavy step. Jack fell through the floor, and a sickening squish sound was heard. The other soldiers raced to gather around the hole where Jack had fallen in. Ten feet into the hole was Jack impaled in several areas by 10 or 15 six foot long spikes. "Oh god oh god we're all gonna die", one of the soldiers in the back cried, "I gotta get outta here". The leader drew his pistol out if its holster and shot the whining soldier in the head.

"No one deserts, no one leaves" was all he said before re-holstering his pistol and moving on.

Slowly the raiding party descended into the depths of Cochise's base, they eventually reached the main part of the missile silo. It was a space out 70 feet wide and about three hundred feet tall. The walls were steel grate and covered in old cords and various junk. The air was thin and musty. The 14 men slowly moved in circle formation into the center of the room, they had their assault rifles ready to mow down any threats. "Where are you you son of a bitch"?, one of the soldiers growled, "quit hiding". "Not hiding, waiting", Cochise whispered in a deep voice layered with hate. The man turned around and started shooting in the direction of Cochise's voice. Cochise jumped out of the darkness and landed onto of the man. He knocked him down and shot him twice in the back of the head. Cochise then threw down a flash bomb, he shielded his eyes with his sleeve, but the others were not so lucky.

The bomb overloaded their senses their ears were filled with a sound that sounded like the shrieking of the damned. Bright flashes of light disoriented them and blinded them. In the mass confusion Cochise grabbed two tomahawks from his belt and threw them into the faces of two soldiers. They screamed then dropped to the ground in a pool of blood. The others were firing blindly killing more of themselves then hitting Cochise. Cochise pulled two frag grenades from his pouch, pulled the pins, and handed them to two soldiers. In their confusion the soldiers took the grenades and stared at them for a second. By the time they realized what they were the two men were little more than a bloody pile of meat and bones. Three men were left alive, he went around to them and removed their gas masks forcefully. "What are you", screamed the leader, who was bleeding profusely from his stomach because he took fired by his own men. Cochise didn't answer he simply tossed a can of tear gas into the small group of three survivors. After a minute of choking the men collapsed and passed out.

Later….

The leader slowly began to wake up. His head was throbbing and he couldn't feel any of his limbs. The room he was in was covered in blood and pieces of meat that used to be his men. The leader started looking around frantically. He was laying face up on some sort of table. He tried to move his arms, but couldn't he looked at them then screamed in horror. His arms were gone, his legs too. Bloody stumps took their place. "Why are you doing this to me", he screamed in agony.

Cochise appeared over him with a tomahawk. "Haee'a Magaanii", was all he said. Cochise slammed the blade onto the leader's neck, decapitating him.


	3. Vic De' Arc

City: Yellow base

Zone: 3Y

Time: Three days later

The world came spinning back to The Operative and hit him like T-34. He rolled his head around trying desperately to come back to reality. He was failing. The world came in and out of existence for the Operative, nothing was clear everything was blurry and rapidly rotating. The Operative identified four or five voices in the room. He could understand that they were there, but not what they were saying. The voices sounded like three men and a woman. "He should be conscious soon, Dr. Hochlund and I have finished growing the cybernetic cells. He's damn lucky to be alive, he looked pretty rough when we got him, but he'll walk again. Within the next few days I imagine", one of the voices spoke. Her voice was calm and beautiful, almost soothing. The Operative heard bits and pieces of what was said " Hochlund, cells, alive, walk". None of it made sense. After a minute of fighting to stay awake he slipped back into unconsciousness. **The next day**

The Operative slowly came back into consciousness. For him the world was a blank canvas and reality was carefully being painted back on. He rubbed his eyes and sat. He looked around the room trying to figure out where he was, the intense smell of antiseptics and death filled his nose. "Am I in a fucking hospital", he groaned in pain. The Operative's entire body felt like a board of wood that just got shoved through a chipper. A doctor walked into the Operative's room. She wall tall, about 6"2, and looked to be of Icelandic decent. She had night black hair and deep blue eyes. The doctor wore a thick and heavy lab uniform with YL printed on both sleeves. "Herra Solider how are you feeling", The doctor said as she began looking at The Operative's leg. "I feel good baby, why don't you climb on top of me and you can have a closer examination", The Operative cooed. "In your dreams", the doctor scoffed and squeezed his new leg. The Operative grunted in pain. "It seems your tissue has taken quite nicely"

"Lady I don't remember shit after I saved your colonel and as a reward yall blow me the fuck up"

"Your leg was blown 've been out for four days. We stabilized you on the second day, and we have been working on a stable cybernetic replacement for your leg".

"I appreciate the leg and all, but none of what you just said sounds cheep. Whats this mean for me".

The doctor leaned in so her face was about two inches from his "it means you're our bitch until you've worked off your debt."

The Operative fell back onto his bed "great great great, id love to sit around and play super happy fun time with yall, but I've got better things to do. He tries to sit up and stand. The doctor pulls a pistol out of her inner pocket. "Here are your options. Option A I shoot you in the head, sell your equipment, and use your body to experiment. Option B you lay down and rest, when your better you become a Yellow team associate." After a few seconds The Operative laid back down. His face could only show a fraction of his disdain for this whole situation. "It seem like I don't have alotta choice. I do have a shiny new leg, but I'm not sure how happy I am to work for people that say thank you with an artillery shell", The Operative though as he examined his leg. It looked the same on the outside, but the femur, fibula, tiba have been replaced by a complex system of cybernetic implants. The Operative poked his leg several times until he red dot appeared half way up his leg and beeped angrily. The doctor slapped his hand "don't mess with it. It is still getting used to being part of your system." The doctor then proceeded to take his blood pressure, his temperature, then stuck him with a needle and took some blood. "Why are you taking such good care of me? Why not let me die? "

"Colonel Dunbar's orders, plus now we must take care of our investment".

"So, when can I get out of this damn bed".

"Tomorrow, probably", the doctor expressed and finished writing down his vital signs. He gathered her papers and walked to the door "My name is Dr.Níelsdóttir if you need me". She paused for a moment "get over it". With that she excited the room and left The Operative to his thoughts. The Operative smiled to himself. He liked the doctor even if she was on the touchy side. He managed to sit up straight and look out the window that was positioned beside the bed. The Operative looked down onto a fairly large sized courtyard where 15 or 16 soldiers were sparring. The soldiers wore standard issue uniforms, but they lacked breathers or any other face mask or helmet, except one. He wore beige armor that looked like plate armor, but moved like cloth. His breather was a rare old unit that The Operative has only seen once before. The two air tubes ran into a large air tank on the man's chest, or women The Operative couldn't really tell. Most of the soldiers were sparring in groups of two, but a group of 8 stood in a circle around the soldier in beige. The men converged on the one on the middle all at once. They came in for a synchronized attack, but the man was faster. One punched at him, but got nothing but air. The man dodged the punch and grabbed the other soldier's arm then flipped him over his shoulder. The other's rushed in and tried similar moved. The man moved faster than anything The Operative had ever imagined he punched two of the attacking soldiers in the neck then slammed their heads together. He kneed another in the stomach so hard he coughed up a little blood, then the man tossed him into another soldier. The men started getting up, a large bulky soldier with no hair rubbed his head "damn Vic how many of us is it gonna take to get you". Another one dropped his arm over the first one's shoulder "how many men do we have at this base", then he busted out laughing. The man identified as Vic turned around and the Operative finally got a good look at the writing on his chest plate. The letters were an alphabet he didn't recognize, but they looked Slavic maybe Romanian. The Operative laid back in his bed "theres something about that man I find oddly…attractive", he thought. He grimaced and shook that though out of his head. The Operative figured it was time to rest, if the doctor said he could walk tomorrow that probably meant they had a plan for tomorrow. The Operative closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep sleep.


	4. I knew it!

The Operative awoke to a steady succession of artillery fire. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up in his bed. Across the room lying in a neat pile, in a large blue leather chair, was his clothes and equipment. The Operative cracked his neck then lifted himself to his feet, and walked to where his equipment was. He dressed himself, putting on his heavy combat boots and breather system last. The Operative slid his rifle into the sling on his back and opened the door. He stepped out into the hallway and took short light steps down the hallway. The medical wing, which he was in, was on the second floor of the base. It directly overlooked the training courtyard, and the artillery guns were just outside the entrance.

The Operative stumbled around the floor until he found a staircase that took him down to the first floor, and finally outside. The Operative scanned the area until he finally spotted about 20 other soldiers loading, aiming, and firing the artillery guns, Colonel Dunbar stood nearby supervising and shouting orders. "Hey colonel DunBERRY, it seems I you're much luckier than I", The Operative shouted and waved.

"You son of a bitch I thought you were dead", Colonel Dunbar laughed, you do realize I don't have to pay you, right?"

"Yeah, it seems I have a deal with your superiors I am to be as Dr.Níelsdóttir so elegantly put it, Yellow team's bitch".

"It seems you are", Colonel Dunbar laughed. A door about fifteen feet from Colonel Dunbar a door opened and a soldier with three red chevrons walked through it. The soldier jogged over to

The Operative and saluted. "Are you the individual known as The Operative?"

"Might be, depends if saying yes gets me shot at"

"Here's your assignment", the soldier said and handed him a piece of paper. Then he turned and jogged back to where he came from. The Operative turned back to Colonel Dunbar "let me get this straight, but we're in the middle of nowhere with scarce resources and you guys take the time to send me a fuckin memo. Are you serious?"

Colonel Dunbar smiled underneath his mask "Let me get this straight. You shoot a raider in the head at 300 yards and shoot another in the hands and knees at the same distance. Then you execute him and when I promise you payment for helping me my team blows your leg off. And you expect us to let you meet anyone in our high command?" The Operative gave the Colonel a dirty look beneath his mask "point taken". The Operative then proceeded to look at the paper the soldier had given him. The paper had a layout of a large complex with entrances and exits highlighted in red. The box labeled mission description said "Here is the layout of a Red team listening post.

Get inside gather all the information you can on troop movements and any information they may have gathered on Yellow operations. Commander Vic will be assisting you. Meet him in the vehicle depot. Don't make me regret spending my valuable resources on you. " "Awesome", The Operative thought folding the paper and putting it in his trench coats pocket. "Hey colonel, where is the vehicle depot?", The Operative shouted, walking toward him. "Go in that building go straight through and you should come to a small warehouse".

The Operative thanked him and started following Colonel Dunbar's directions. The base was large and very old. It had served as a tank foundry pre-world war 3. The base was in fairly good shape for its age, but still showed the scares of ware and war. The Operative navigated his way through the aging tank factory and after a few minutes stepped into the vehicle depot. The depot was a large staging area originally used as a staging area for finished tanks. Three tanks that appeared to be in working order were situated in a horizontal line across the depot. Various engineers worked busily trying to maintain the finished tanks and create new ones. In the far left corner The Operative spotted Vic helping five or six engineers lift tank shells into the main ammo battery. The Operative half jogged over to where they were working and stopped in front of Vic. "Are you Commander Vic, im the Operative I saw you kick those guys asses yesterday nice work. It seems im with you on this assignment",

The Operative said as a way of greeting. Vic looked up from his work and ran his eyes over the Operative. Vic didn't speak he just put down the shells and picked up the shotgun that was resting on a table beside them. "Great, he doesn't talk I hope he's not like a rapist. Well, maybe for him hehe", The Operative thought then gave himself a very hard mental kick in the head. "What the hell is wrong with me no homo". Vic reached into his left pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with the red team listening post's layout and the surrounding area printed on it. Vic indicated a hill and made the gesture of holding a sniper rifle. "Give you cover from here got it", The Operative said half sarcastically half serious. Vic nodded and started walking toward the exit. The Operative leaned over to one of the engineers and whispered "have you ever seen Vic without his helmet"?

"Nope, never takes the damn thing off. Whoever he is I'm glad he's on our side."

Satisfied the Operative jogged after Vic.

Later

Location: Red team listening outpost 13

Zone: 13R

Time: 11:00 P.M

Vic and The Operative took shelter behind a large sand dune that stood about 30 feet away from the outpost. Vic held up his hand to signal go. The two slowly climbed the sand dune until they reached the top. Vic signaled the Operative that he would be in and out in 10 minutes. Vic then proceeded to cover The Operative in sand so he would be less visible. The listening outpost was a small two story building with a window on each floor, a small satellite dish was mounted on the roof pointing east. Vic silently climbed down the other side of the sand dune and crept toward the base. The Operative set up his rifle's bipod and took aim at the two guards outside. He turned a knob on the stock backwards so the rifle would fire slower, thereby making it quieter. Pop pop, two pieces of metal about the size of grains of sand pieced the visors of the two guards, killing them instantly. Vic sprinted up the small hill and caught the bodies before they hit the ground. "Damn he's good", The Operative thought as he watched Vic silently stash the bodies and slip inside.

Ten minutes later the Operative was still waiting. "Isn't this a tad unfucking professional", the Operative growled very annoyed. The Operative checked his watch again then looked up. The listening post exploded in an ocean of fire, raining debris everywhere. "Holy shit", he exclaimed , shouldered his rifle, and sprinted down the dune. The post was engulfed in a roaring fire, as The Operative raced up the hill and started searching the debris. A silhouetted man charged away from the scene undetected. "Vic Vic,VIC", The Operative shouted looking around. Vic pushed a piece of flaming debris off himself and stood up. The explosion had torn his helmet off and torn his armor in multiple places. The Operative took a step back stunned. "You're a…um…..a". "A women", Vic finished tossing her long black hair behind her head. ""I fucking knew I wasn't gay", was the Operative's first thought followed by "she's so hot". Vic had dark purple eyes, that looked weird, but The Operative couldn't figure out why. She had long black hair, and a stare as cold as Satan's soul. "Some crazy local stormed in and blew the place up. I didn't get a good look at him, but he was screaming Haee'a Magaanii".

"Doesn't ring a bell. Let's get back to base the higher-ups are gonna wanna hear about this". Vic started walking back in front of him, he was happy to sit back and watch the view. " Stop looking at my ass", Vic muttered taking a large serrated combat knife out of her belt.


End file.
